He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant.
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